For ever since about as long as I can remember, everybody calls me "Porkpie." I hate it.
It's my own damn fault. One time - one time when I was a little kid, I wore a pork pie hat to school. I thought it was pretty sweet. I thought I was pretty cute. Kids asked me, now what kind of a hat do you call that? And in my foolishness, I told them.
Ever since then it's been, "Heyyyy, Porkpie!" All through the rest of grade school. All through high school. "Hey Porkpie, how's it going!" "Nice catch, Porkpie!" "Where's the party, Porkpie?" I tried to keep all jovial, to react in a way befitting such a jaunty moniker. But all the while I felt a dull horror growing, felt the hated name gripping me more indelibly. I could feel it seep in deeper daily, I felt certain that if I couldn't think of something to do to shake it, I'd be stuck with it forever. I did nothing.
By college it was so deeply ingrained that even my professors called me Porkpie. "Porkpie, have you considered switching majors?" "I love you, Porkpie!" By the time I started going on job interviews, I had given up the battle entirely. I would come in looking sharp in my interview suit, firm handshake, introduce myself - but as I'm sitting down, I'm already saying "...but people call me Porkpie."
I haven't the slightest hope of getting out from under it now, at this point.